


Break Faith

by VeloxVoid



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Betrayal, Childhood Trauma, Crimson Flower Cyril, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Secrets, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29314431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeloxVoid/pseuds/VeloxVoid
Summary: Slowly, Cyril begins to feel suffocated repaying his debt to Lady Rhea. He yearns for his life back — for a chance to escape. Luckily, Edelgard grants him that wish.As a Black Eagle, Cyril learns the secrets of the Church, the tactics to betrayal, and uncovers romance in the form of Lysithea. He alone can be the one to take Rhea down.
Relationships: Cyril & Claude von Riegan, Cyril & Edelgard von Hresvelg, Cyril & Lysithea von Ordelia, Cyril & Shamir Nevrand, Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 21
Kudos: 29
Collections: The Three Houses AU Bang





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _I’m swimming in the smoke of bridges I have burned  
>  So don’t apologise, I’m losing what I don’t deserve  
>  What I don’t deserve  
>  I used the deadwood to make the fire rise  
>  The blood of innocence burning in the skies _

_Cyril stood by Edelgard’s side, jaw clenched tight. Whether blood or sweat dripped down the back of his neck, he did not know; all he knew was that it was hot — caustic against his skin and making it prickle. He blinked through heavy eyelids, the life force draining out of him through the wounds he’d sustained. Yet still he stood strong: chest forward, chin raised, eyes trained downwards at the sight that lay below the wall they stood on._

_“Are you sure you want to do this?” Edelgard asked. Her tone was light despite the surroundings — the bloodied battlefield beneath them, corpses all around. She was utterly unperturbed by the huge, towering dragon they looked upon, snapping through a salivating maw, tail lashing out at the Imperial soldiers surrounding it._

Was _he sure he wanted to do this? Go against the person who’d supposedly saved him — whom he had spent two years of his life worshipping, brainwashed by her supposed kindness? Was that within his power?_

_As he took in Lady Rhea’s new form — ghastly white scales; sword-like fangs dripping with the scarlet ichor of the dead; her hulking, swollen dragon’s body — Cyril gripped Failnaught tight._

_He raised one arm and heard the swoop — the low, powerful noise of his wyvern’s wings cutting through the air behind him. Turning, he watched the beast approach and braced himself to jump — to leap onto his steed’s back into the fray beyond as he had so many times before._

_He had never been more sure of anything in his life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art is by the AMAZING [Celicalms](https://twitter.com/celicalms) on Twitter, without whom this fic would not be possible! Thank you so much Bushra, for all of your encouragement and inspiration along the way <3


	2. Ash to ashes, dust to dust

He was still scared of fire.

The flames that had consumed his parents those nine years ago still flickered beneath his eyelids each time he tried to sleep. Their heat was scorching — unbearable — making his skin slick with sweat and his lungs burn through the ash that choked them. He would wake up in tears, craving nothing more than his mother’s embrace, but she would never be there. No one would ever be there. Cyril was alone.

Being asked to light the fires at the monastery made those memories resurface all over again. The summer held warm nights, meaning he could stray far away from the mantelpieces and the logs they held, obediently awaiting a blaze. In the colder months, however — as the Pegasus Moon encroached, when the chill would creep in through the window panes to draw prickles over one’s skin — Cyril would have to face the flames.

Now, beneath the Blue Sea Moon, Lady Rhea would begin to grow cold as the summer heat fled by night, making way for the autumn. With that fact came a cruel, bitter realisation; Cyril would have to face the images of death all over again. 

Of course, he was  _ safe _ now. That was what he’d been told.  _ She _ had saved him — had rescued him from the evils of the world, blanketing him with promises of protection and of a better life.

“How is this better?” Cyril whispered to himself, hands trembling as he struck a match against the box it had been kept in, watching the sparks fly. He had watched sparks fly in golden streaks through the evening sky as the flaming arrows had descended upon his village those many years ago. Heat permeated the air as his matchstick eventually took flame, warming his face in a way that should have been comforting.

It was not, though. Terror rose inside him, and Cyril threw the little stick into the fireplace as if it were venomous.

The flames started small but eventually grew greedy, swallowing the logs just as Fódlan’s fires had his house. Cyril had only been five years old, but the sight of his home in flames was one he could never forget.

He stood, returning the matchbox to his pocket, and watched the all-consuming orange swell against the black pit of Lady Rhea’s fireplace. He watched them dance, flickering so carefree, sated by the wood he’d chopped earlier in the day. His fingers shook. His lips trembled. He closed his eyes and pushed his hands into his face, willing away the images of his past.

_ At least she’ll be warm, _ he thought bitterly. While he would huddle beneath the sheets on his slab of a hay-filled mattress, in his dank and cramped servants’ chambers, Lady Rhea would sleep soundly by the comforting heat of the fire. The fire that was no more to her than a means of warmth; it had not killed her parents, nor consumed her village.

Cyril shook his head; he shouldn’t harbour such thoughts. He bit his lip as guilt washed over him. This woman had taken him in of her own good will. She had clothed him, housed him, fed him — given him a new life.  _ Saved _ him.

Yet something itched at the back of Cyril’s mind. A rat had made a nest somewhere back there, scrambling his thoughts and nibbling away at his subconscious. It was an intruder — it shouldn’t have been there — but he was helpless to it.

_ How is this any different from being a servant of Goneril? _

Those times he’d spent in the Goneril family manor had been dark. A cold cell of a bedchamber shared with nine other lackeys, the schedule of chores every day. Fetching water from the well to scrub the dank stone floors, the one pair of rags he’d had to wear day in, day out.

Cyril looked down at his clothes now, the washed-out beige of his shirt now glowing like coals under the firelight. And, he realised, it  _ was _ no different. One pair of clothes, with a set of spares only for when the others needed washing.

“How is this better…?” he muttered to himself once more, balling up the fabric of his shirt in his fists.

Garreg Mach Monastery was home to the Officer’s Academy, overseen by Archbishop Rhea. Three months ago, a brand new set of students had poured in, all dressed in the finery of their uniforms, taking up the classrooms by day and participating in after-academy clubs by evening. They learned to fight, learned dark and light magic, learned how to ride horses and pegasi and wyverns.

They  _ learned. _ Prepared for life.

And Cyril cleaned.

When Lady Rhea had found Cyril upon an unexpected visit to House Goneril, she had apparently been surprised to see him, a boy with so much promise, acting as a humble servant. That was what she’d told him. Thus, he’d been brought back to Garreg Mach — an incredible place, so beautiful and prestigious; the base of the Knights of Seiros, with the Officer’s Academy producing the land’s next warriors.

And yet Cyril was assigned to be a servant once more. While at first he’d been thankful, thinking that perhaps Rhea would reappoint him another status after the first few months, a year had soon passed. He’d seen two sets of students graduate from the academy now, and witnessed two more sets enrol. As guilt consumed him for having such bitter thoughts, he could not stop another feeling from overtaking it — from eating up his contrition and releasing a feeling more black and potent in its wake.

He felt resentful. Why was it that he’d been promised a better life, and yet hadn’t even been taught skills as basic as reading or writing?

He grit his teeth in shame — in anger and remorse and a burning, writhing resentment.

“This is  _ worse,” _ he seethed.

“What was that, Cyril?”

Each of his muscles leapt simultaneously in fright. Turning, he found himself met by none other than Lady Rhea herself, looking expectantly down at him from the doorway.

She looked resplendent as always in her pure white gown, cloak draped over her shoulders and flowing from her arms like angels’ wings. Her eyes blinked softly, but as her gaze fixed on him, a chill ran up his spine despite the fire behind him. There was something almost cold behind it — perhaps even knowing.

“Sorry, Lady Rhea,” Cyril said, mustering a smile. “I was just talkin’ to myself!”

She glided through the room towards him, ethereal — reminiscent of the Goddess she loved so dearly. “About anything in particular?”

“Nope! Just about the fire and stuff.”

Despite his fear that she may have heard his doubts about her, Cyril could not help standing a little taller in her presence: chest out, ready to serve. Prepared for directions, to do as she commanded, for if he didn’t — didn’t look as obedient as was anticipated — Cyril feared what might happen.

Lady Rhea glanced over at the mantelpiece, the flames within casting an amber glaze over her eyes, and gave a strange smile, as though her mind were elsewhere. One hand reached out towards him, and Cyril flinched as she began to run her fingers delicately through the curls of his hair.

“You’ve worked so hard for the monastery, Cyril,” she told him in an airy voice. “I couldn’t have asked for a better worker.”

Just when he’d been thinking of how much he begrudged her. Cyril felt a pang of shame. “I wouldn’t be here without you, Lady Rhea,” he repeated. That line always pleased her — always made her smile.

And it did.

She chuckled slightly before crossing to her desk. “I think you might be ready.”

Cyril watched, anxiety swirling inside of him as she sat, pulling parchment and a quill towards her.

_ Ready for what? _

He didn’t ask, merely watched as she smiled loosely, beginning to write. The words flowed from the tip of her quill in swirling black ink, and Cyril padded lightly across the room until he reached her.

“Here.” When at last she returned her quill to its ink bottle, she handed him the parchment.

He looked down at it, feeling fear coil through his stomach, threatening to make him sick. The words meant nothing to him. They looked beautiful — the handwriting swirling and intricate — but they were meaningless. When he had been snatched from his homeland, he was only just capable of reading basic Almyran characters, but these strange new Fódlan ones? They were nonsense.

Of course, he couldn’t let her know that.

“For me?” he simply asked. And when he looked back into her eyes, he saw the flames dancing delighted within.

“I think you’ve proven yourself,” she said, voice as light as a Great Tree Moon breeze. “Shamir should be happy to take you on.”

Cyril felt as if he’d taken an arrow to the chest, a sensation so sudden and startling he had to take a moment to breathe.  _ Shamir? _ Taking him on? “Wait, you mean… as an apprentice?”

“I do.” Rhea’s smile was wide. “Your talent shouldn’t go to waste, Cyril.”

He smiled wide, feeling his cheeks begin to hurt as he tried desperately to force the elation from his face. She couldn’t see him like this — as an excitable child. “Gee, thanks,” he said, wonderment audible in his voice. “That’s… so kind of you!”

“Think nothing of it,” Lady Rhea replied in her soft, sweet voice. “I just think it’s about time you learned to put your skills to another use. You’re such a talented boy.”

Cyril turned, looking out of the room’s high arched windows into the evening beyond. The sun had almost set, casting an amber haze across the mountaintops in the distance, brightening the otherwise indigo sky. In that moment, as he watched a flock of birds trail through the skies over the monastery grounds, Cyril felt untouchable.

For the first time, he felt useful.  _ Wanted. _ Like he was good for something that wasn’t just menial chores. Finally he had a purpose. He felt powerful, looking out at the boundless sky beyond. One day, he might be able to see what lay beyond the monastery — beyond the grounds he’d been confined to.

He turned back to the archbishop, seeing that same breezy smile dancing around her lips.

“Lady Rhea, I can’t thank ya enough.”

She chuckled. “No need to thank me, Cyril. Now go and get some rest, and don’t forget to present that letter to Shamir in the morning.”

He balled his free hand into a fist by his side. “I won’t let ya down! I promise!”

With that, she bid him goodnight and dismissed him. While he walked out of her quarters with dignity intact, shutting the heavy wooden doors behind him, as soon as he was free, he leapt for joy. A noise of happiness escaped his throat, he punched the air, and when his feet hit the ground again, they took off at a run.

He sped through the monastery without a single care, barrelling into some knights and finding himself tangling with a misplaced mop. The corridors were his domain — in the moment, they belonged to him.

He could be Shamir’s apprentice! He could learn to fight! He could finally,  _ finally _ be good for something other than cleaning! What had he been thinking? How could he have been so careless? To doubt Lady Rhea’s goodness after what she’d done for him, when now she was finally giving him the opportunity to fight. To  _ learn. _ More shame washed over him.

Cyril skidded to a halt outside his bedchambers and turned once more to face the sky above him. By now, the sun had set, and white pinpricks of stars glinted out from beneath a cobalt blanket.

He thought back to the Almyran gods, the ones his parents had sang bedtime lullabies about in his youth, and closed his eyes. The parchment in his hand felt soft and delicate, yet seemed to pulsate with a warmth — with a promise. Now, things could be better. Now, he could be someone. He could be Cyril Taleb, forging his own destiny.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the gods — the deities he would never speak about for fear the Church and their Goddess would banish him. He turned back to his bedroom door, happiness dancing in his chest and shooting sparks through his brain, and headed inside for the night.


	3. Your deception, my disgust

Cyril had barely opened his eyes before he was out of his bedroom door, barrelling through the monastery to where he knew Shamir trained. The day was bright and crisp, with the cloudless sky a gleaming sapphire above the dregs of saffron crawling out from behind the hilltops. A warm breeze whipped through his hair and, for once in the morning, he felt truly awake.

Shamir trained out in the field on the outskirts of the forest. Delivering letters and messages to her had proved hard when Cyril had first tried; the woman was elusive. He would scour the entire grounds looking for the mercenary without anything to show for it. In the end, he’d had to swallow his pride and ask Catherine where Shamir would be.

Catherine had barked a laugh and directed Cyril to his current destination: through a tiny gap in the wall tucked into a disused corner of Garreg Mach known, apparently, to only three people. It led out into the vast grasslands behind the monastery where the forest crawled up the plains to greet them. The grass was emerald green, dotted with wildflowers, and Shamir had pinned hand-drawn parchment targets to a few of the trees.

Cyril could run away into this forest, he realised as he approached. The trees were densely-packed with a thick evergreen canopy — he could wander in one day, it would swallow him up, and he would be lost. Perhaps, with Shamir training him in archery, he’d actually have a chance of surviving.

He shook his head.  _ No, _ he shouldn’t entertain such thoughts; he had no reason to leave Garreg Mach. Not now that he actually seemed to have a future.

As he waded through the thicket of grass down towards Shamir, he watched her turn, eyes immediately suspicious. As usual, she wore her black clothes and green overcoat, bow still raised from where she’d been shooting.

“Oh, Cyril,” she said, scowl dissolving into the tiniest of smiles. She walked up to greet him. “What’ve you got for me?”

He brandished the slightly-crumpled invitation he’d been given the night prior and handed it to her. “Somethin’ a bit different this time.”

Shamir slung her bow over her shoulder and took the parchment. She read fast, scanning over it with lazy eyes that widened gradually before fixing back on him. “She wants me to teach you archery.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement — as if confirming it to herself. Her gaze fell to the grass, and then around to the makeshift archery targets pinned to the trees, their corners whipping slightly in the breeze.

That hadn’t been the reaction Cyril had expected. A handshake and congratulations, perhaps, but stunned, silent contemplation?

He almost felt like a burden.

“Alright, I can teach you,” she said at last, nodding at the target. “But first…” And she whirled around to him, looking him up and down with that signature analytical gaze. “We’ve got some work to do.”

* * *

Cyril was sweating by the time Shamir called for a break, but not from exertion. The sun shone down on them powerfully from its peak in the sky, but he hadn’t been moving beneath it much at all. Instead, their time had been spent with Cyril adjusting his posture, training his eyes, and practicing a hundred different grips on his newly-assigned ‘bow and stick’. 

“You can’t jump straight into a real bow and arrows,” Shamir had told him after tying string to a short, curved tree-branch. “Here, see how you do with this.”

He felt like an idiot.

When he’d been told he’d be training in archery, he had imagined honing his aim. Perhaps he would miss the target a few times, and would find pulling the string difficult, but that was the sort of humiliation he’d imagined.

Being forced to play with sticks like a baby was a whole other type of embarrassment. He had broken out in a nervous sweat, only intensified by the chuckles Shamir would emit as he missed.

With the announcement that they’d be taking a lunch break, he had collapsed into a heap on the floor, the grass tickling at his bare arms. Shamir reached into a leather satchel and pulled out a paper bag, removing a hunk of crusty bread from inside it. To Cyril’s surprise, she held it out to him.

He blinked at it, confused. “Oh, I can’t take this.”

Shamir raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be pretty hungry if you don’t.”

“It’s yours,” he told her. “Honestly Shamir, I can go get something for myself—”

But from the bag she pulled another, shoving the first in his face. Bashfully, Cyril took it.

“Thanks,” he said.

Shamir sat next to him, and the two began to eat. Cyril was surprised to find that the bread had been stuffed with fillings — leafy greens, some sort of meat, and a deliciously-tangy relish. He would never admit it, but good food was one of his favourite things. They ate in silence, Cyril looking up to where wisps of clouds had formed in the sky. They glided easily through the aether like ducks on the water, wandering carefree.

_ Wandering. _

“How come you work for her, Shamir?” Cyril blurted out suddenly.

She glanced at him, expression curious. “Work for who?”

His eyes widened as he realised the weight of his words.  _ Wandering — a wandering mercenary. _ That was how he’d heard Shamir described before she’d come here to work at Garreg Mach. “It’s okay, never mind—”

“No,” Shamir pressed. “Work for who?”

Cyril bit his lip and lowered his remaining sandwich. “Ya know. Lady Rhea.”

Silence reigned a moment too long as she blinked at him.

Cyril continued awkwardly. “I just heard that you were a mercenary before you came here. But why would you choose to work here, when you could be out exploring the world?”

A smile Cyril had never seen before played upon Shamir’s lips, making her dark eyes dance with something playful. Wordlessly, she stood and stepped over to the trees, loading her bow with a fluid, almost careless gesture. With one sweep of her arm she had drawn the string and released the arrow, sending it shooting through the air to its destination. It landed dead at the centre of the target.

“I guess… the same reason as you,” she said distractedly.

Cyril blinked up at her, his heart pounding in his chest. “Because you have to?”

The smirk returned. “You could say that.”

“How do you mean?”

“I owe her a debt, for saving me. She rescued me from a life that was so much worse. Supposedly.”

_ Supposedly.  _ Cyril felt his head tilt by instinct, asking silently for more.

Shamir shrugged and notched another arrow. “And now I’m stuck here.”

She let her arrow fly.

* * *

Time passed quickly as Shamir’s apprentice. While Cyril still completed chores around the monastery in the mornings and evenings — fearing looking like a slacker to Lady Rhea and his fellow servants — he would steal away in the afternoons to where Shamir trained behind the monastery wall, out into the field.

She greeted him warmly every time. It shocked him a little; every encounter he’d had with her previously had left him with the impression that she’d be cold. Calculating. Perhaps that she’d even dislike him, with her stern glares and folded arms — her tone as short and sharp as a silver dagger.

Alas, to his surprise, Shamir was kind. Still terse, and her criticisms blunt and cutting, but nice. As if she actually cared. As if she genuinely wanted him to improve, and to see him accomplish something.

At least she’d upgraded him to a  _ real _ bow and arrows now. No more flimsy sticks — now, Cyril had been practicing with the sleek wooden weapons for a week, and had been showing improvement. Even if it was marginal, it was something.

He was just thankful he had Shamir. He had grown to understand her cutting tone — could sense the kind edge lining her criticisms, see the smile to her eyes as she helped him to improve. Perhaps it was naive of him, but he couldn’t help feeling that Shamir liked him, in a way. He didn’t feel as much of a burden on her; one time she had even opened up with an anecdote during their training sessions, talking about shooting wildlife back home in Dagda.

That had reassured him. Shamir was not from Fódlan either, and the two of them had even seemed to bond once or twice over the oddities of the land. Its strange language, amusing accent, boring architecture… In a way, Shamir with all her harsh words felt more soothing than Lady Rhea with her sickly sweet ones. Cyril enjoyed her firm hand sometimes, and felt at ease under her scrutinising eyes. She was truthful with him, knew not the meaning of the word  _ ‘sugarcoating’, _ and could share a laugh with him in the way a big sister would. 

He trusted her in a way he had never truly trusted anybody else in Fódlan. Not even Lady Rhea, his new surrogate mother. He felt a burn of anxiety in his chest at the thought; no, Lady Rhea should be the person he trusted most. His family in this land — his lifegiver. That was what he’d been told.

Now, Cyril shook his head to rid himself of such thoughts. No treason. No suspicion.

To distract himself, he narrowed his eyes as he focussed on the target ahead of him — on the crude black circles Shamir had drawn onto them in black paint. The one in the centre was his goal, but as he let loose his arrow, it wedged itself into the outermost circle. A slight wind tousled his hair, and Cyril frowned.

“Forgot to account for the wind,” he grumbled.

Shamir chuckled at his side. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You did a good job today.”

“I did?”

“Sure did.” She flashed him a rare smile, but it faded quickly. Heading over to the trees, she began to retrieve all the arrows he’d loosed into the forest opening.

“Thanks, Shamir,” he called to her, placing his bow back in the upturned log she’d hollowed out and used as a storage box. “I can’t tell ya how much it means to me that you’re willing to teach.”

Shamir stopped collecting arrows — straightened her shoulders. When she turned to Cyril again, her face was soft; she looked him up and down with an unplaceable face. Something behind her features was almost piteous, but another part of it displayed contempt.

“I’m sorry, kid,” she said.

“Huh?”

She folded her arms tight against her chest. “I’m… sorry.”

Cyril’s blood ran cold. “What for?” he asked.

She pressed her lips together, and then her eyebrows wavered. It was a sad expression, but her smile told him to be strong. “For what she’s making you do.”

_ Rhea. _ “Making?”

“You don’t know, do you?” Shamir dropped her arrows, crossing the short expanse of grass between them. “You’ll be another of her Knights soon enough.”

“Yeah.” Cyril regarded Shamir almost warily: her sombre violet eyes, her open posture. She never looked like this — almost regretful, like she’d been caught in the act of something bad. “I’ll be a Knight of Seiros. What’s up with that?”

The woman looked around her; the two of them were completely alone — the field vast and empty and treeline occupied only by animals. Even still, she whispered. “I don’t know what you think this is, but I can assure you it’s not for your benefit.”

A surge of anger flared in his chest, disbelief flickering within.  _ “No,” _ he said with a shake of his head. This  _ was _ for him; this was what he deserved. With training, Cyril could work his way up to being a student, a  _ Knight _ — could finally be an equal instead of an underling. Could forge his own destiny—

“She’s making you another of her pawns, just like the rest of them. She’s fattening you up, to feed you to her war effort.”

Cold began to creep across the surface of his skin, penetrating deep into his chest. Tendrils of ice ensnared his heart, snaking through his veins and his nerves and rendering him numb.

_ “No,” _ he hissed. “She said it’s because I’m a hard worker. She said I deserved… better.”

“You  _ do _ deserve better,” Shamir said, her voice taking on that sisterly tone again. Caring, but trying to hide it. “You deserve better than this life she’s forcing you into. She doesn’t want you to grow, or become your own person. She just wants you to work for her, same as me.”

His voice cracked in his throat as he spoke — the voice of a child. “She’s just… using me?”

“Being a Knight of Seiros seems an honour, but what more is that title than just being a servant of her war?”

His arms hung limp at his sides, hands heavy and empty. “I won’t get to be a student?”

“I’m so sorry, kid,” said Shamir, placing a hand on his shoulder. It was warm. Strangely comforting. But it did nothing to stop the rage circling in the pit of his stomach, growing and swelling like dragons from the tales of old. A fire roared within, licking at his lungs and searing his throat, and Cyril swallowed hard as he felt his hands curl into fists.

“She… lied to me?” His voice was choked, the heat of rising tears burning his eyes.

Shamir’s lips parted, her brow wavering. She surveyed the area yet again before crouching down in front of him, both hands on his shoulders. “This is what happens to most kids she brings back here. The honour of training to be a Knight of Seiros. Or the honour of being cannon-fodder when she inevitably needs some.”

Cyril was shaking by now, consumed by the flames of his anger. His muscles trembled and his fingers twitched. Never before had Cyril known the meaning of the word  _ bloodthirsty, _ but now he felt as if he did.

A life of servitude. His previous existence destroyed in a war he’d played no part in. Dragged into the country’s army at the age of  _ five, _ to serve against the people who’d killed his parents. Dragged as a prisoner of war into a house that cared not for his kind, called all sorts of names and treated as inhuman. Up until last year, when he’d been rescued by the miraculous saviour that was the monastery’s archbishop. Made to light her fires which he feared so badly, to scrub the floors and walls and clothes, to do the dirty work he’d never wished for.

Cyril had always acted like it was an honour — the fate he deserved after Rhea had been so  _ kind _ as to save him.

It wasn’t until he was given a taste of freedom, however — the tiniest glimmer of hope, untouchable on the horizon — that he realised what he truly deserved. He deserved to be a person, at long last. He deserved the childhood he’d never had, the education that had been stripped from him when Fódlan had obliterated his home.

Being enlisted as Shamir’s apprentice had seemed the path to achieving that goal. He’d thought that was where the archbishop was guiding him, what she was helping him achieve. But in reality, if Shamir was to be believed, Rhea had no plans for that at all.

And Cyril did believe Shamir. If Rhea had been so cruel as to make him a servant instead of a student, why would she ever want to train him to achieve his goals? Back in her chambers, lighting her fire those few nights ago, he had been right to doubt her. Right to resent her.

“Kid?” Shamir asked, voice almost wary. “You alright in there?”

Cyril’s vision had narrowed to pinpricks, but as he looked up again into his tutor’s face, the black vignette around his eyes retreated. The sun above blazed bright, and Shamir peered into his face.

Despite his eyes being open, they wouldn’t focus. Exhaustion washed over him, and he finally unclenched his fists to feel sharp, painful ridges in his palms where his nails had dug into them.  _ You alright in there? _

“No,” Cyril said, his voice sounding far away. “I’m not.”

He teetered suddenly, and Shamir’s grasp on his shoulders tightened. “Woah,” she said, slowly guiding him down until he sat on the soft, spongy grass beneath. “You’re okay. Take a break. Here.” She reached to her belt and retrieved a leather waterskin, passing it to him.

He held it in a loose grip, but didn’t drink. He wasn’t thirsty. Only one thought circled in his head.

“I thought she was good, Shamir,” he whispered. “People kept saying she saved me.”

Shamir nodded. “I know.”

Despite his world crashing in around him, Cyril was thankful. Thankful that he knew now, only a few weeks into training, and that Shamir had been the one to tell him.

_ Shamir. _

He could trust her. The woman who held no love for Fódlan, nor the Church, nor for the archbishop.

“Shamir, you said to me, when I first became your apprentice, that you worked for Rhea for the same reason I did.” She looked at him silently, eyes boring into his own. “That she saved you, and now you owe her a debt.”

“Sadly so.”

The smile that worked its way onto Cyril’s face was bitter — full of pain, betrayal, heartache — but somehow he still felt happy. Finally, it seemed he had somebody else on his side. He’d never had that before. “Then we should try to get outta here.”

And the smile that Shamir returned to him was rueful. “That’s the dream, kid.”


	4. When your name is finally drawn

_ How to get out? _

He knew he wanted to. He knew he  _ had _ to. Being conscripted into Rhea’s army had never been a part of his plan. While Cyril had never been the bravest, not even when he’d been a child soldier for the Almyran military, he knew now that he’d rather suffer any other fate than dying needlessly for the archbishop.

Voicing such thoughts had led him nowhere.

“It’s not worth it,” Shamir had told him while they’d sharpened arrowheads together by the forest. “Believe me, I thought about leaving. It’s just… not worth it.”

“Why isn’t it?” Cyril pressed. He didn’t intend to be pushy — it wasn’t in his nature — but the fate that was closing in on him from every side was making him anxious. The more he trained with Shamir, the better at archery he’d become. And the better at archery he became, the quicker he’d find himself out on some battlefield, skewered at the end of an enemy’s spear.

He knew that if he pretended to be useless, he could delay his fate. But he could only put off training sessions for so long until he’d get caught.

While pouring tea for the staff at lunch one day, Cyril’s blood had run cold upon seeing the familiar form of Rhea glide into the dining hall. Sunbeams had poured in through the door after her, lighting up her gown with a silvery glow, a breeze gently tousling her hair to form a virescent halo around her head.

Once, he would have found the sight beautiful. Now, it terrified him.

He turned around and tried to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible, fingers shuddering as he poured tea into the remaining cups. But soon enough, a shadow was cast over him, and he turned to see the softly smiling eyes of the woman standing behind him. He hadn’t been able to meet them.

“Cyril, you don’t need to be here!” she chuckled, taking the teapot from his hands and returning it to its tray. “Go and train with Shamir. I’m sure it will be far more interesting than serving tea.”

_ Liar. _

But how to create a diversion? How to slip himself from out of her iron grasp? “I dunno, Lady Rhea…” Cyril looked down at his feet, gently kicking a pebble across the wooden floorboards. “I’ve not been doing so good at archery.”

Shamir’s words echoed in his head.  _ “Damn, kid. You’re really picking this up.”  _ An almost baleful laugh.  _ “At this rate, you might be a Knight of Seiros before you know it.” _

“Is that so?” Lady Rhea asked, cocking her head. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Cyril shrugged. “I’m startin’ to wonder if I might be more help as a servant rather than an archer.”  _ Good, that’s good. _ Even being a servant, the job he’d once loathed, was better than being a human target.

But something flickered behind Rhea’s eyes — something almost angry. As though she wanted to shout  _ ‘no’ _ — bark an order and grind her teeth. It dissipated in a flash, a gentle smile replacing it. “Don’t let your confidence be quashed, Cyril. The more you practice, the better you’ll get. Your potential is  _ right there, _ plain to see! Shamir is a fantastic teacher, and I’m sure she’s waiting for you.”

A chill had ripped down Cyril’s spine. Despite the kind, delicate smile cradling the archbishop’s lips, Cyril could read between the lines.

_ Do as you’re told. _

He had swallowed.

Now, he stood by the low wall of Garreg Mach’s graveyard, his fingers gripping the rough stone bricks. He overlooked a steep drop down into the stream that meandered below, gazing at the moss-covered crags upon which the monastery across from him sat. It loomed over him — ominous, a persecutor. Seeming to embody the archbishop herself: an unmoving, unyielding figure that watched his every move and stood in his way. It served no purpose other than to cast a shadow over him and his small, meaningless life. It trapped him within its walls, offering a guise of protection and shelter.

Cyril sighed. The day was beautiful, the late afternoon sky shrouded with clouds that the sun peeked through with brilliant beams. A breeze warmed his face and the air was quiet; only the birds singing from the treetops all around him, and water lapping against the rocks far below, could be heard. Garreg Mach’s students were all in their last classes of the day, no Knights or servants could be seen, and Cyril had left Shamir’s class early.

He didn’t want to be an archer anymore. He wanted to waste as much time as possible, avoiding lessons in the hopes he’d be too poor of an archer to be accepted as a Knight.

Shamir wouldn’t help him leave. From the way she’d phrased it, being found as a deserter was a worse fate than conscription and death. As well, she had a personal debt to pay to the archbishop; she wasn’t going anywhere.

He was truly stuck.

Cyril looked down into the waters reflecting the blue of the sky above, white glistening upon its surface, and sighed. It was time to get back to work.

He turned, facing the makeshift graveyard — a small circle of grass enclosed by a wall, led down to by a short set of stone steps. A large tree sat dead ahead of him, casting a welcome shadow across the glade. Beside him sat the single gravestone. He shuddered at the thought of what, or who, lay beneath.

Crossing to the tree and kneeling before it, Cyril dragged the small box filled with plants towards him. Retrieving the trowel from within, he began to dig. He dug only small, shallow holes — ones that revealed frantic pink worms residing beneath, burying themselves back into the dirt, desperate to escape. Not unlike him. Even  _ worms _ were more successful at escaping their fates than he was. He sighed once more, and from there, he began to plant.

If he were to be a Knight — a vessel with one purpose: to kill — he could at least relish one last moment of creation. Planting these little flowers, setting them up to grow in whatever future lay ahead of him, brought him a sort of peace. No matter what happened to him, he had created something, at least. Not everything in his life would be destruction.

The flowers stood out against the brown of the bark and the green of the grass; their petals were a bright, almost blinding purple — deep and rich and contrasting with their vivid yellow centres. They made Cyril smile. There were six to plant, but just as he picked up the fifth, a sound by his side made him start.

“You’ve made this place look nice.”

Cyril let out a little yelp as he fell backwards onto his haunches. He turned, looking up to meet the eyes of a girl — a young woman — who stood beside him with her hands on her hips. She had entered the graveyard silently — a shadow, almost.

“Are you okay?” she asked, but she didn’t reach down to help him. Instead, she tossed a lock of her hair over her shoulder — her hair that was a mysterious, silvery-white hue. Cyril’s eyes widened as he recognised her.

“You’re the leader of the Black Eagles,” he said, a little breathless from the fright she’d given him. With her black and gold academy uniform highlighted by a scarlet cape and stockings, she could be nobody else.

“I am,” she answered. “I’m Edelgard. And you’re Cyril.”

That took Cyril aback, making him blink in confusion. None of the students — or any of the professors for that matter — had ever seemed to pay any attention to him. For the Black Eagles’ leader to know of him…? “I didn’t think someone like you’d ever pay attention to someone like me.”

“Well,” Edelgard smiled in response, “you’re Rhea’s top retainer, right?”

_ Ugh. _ “I wouldn’t exactly say  _ that…” _

The girl gave him a curious look, as if analysing him. After a moment, she straightened and held out her hand towards him. “Are you okay down there? Don’t you want any help?”

Cyril rolled onto his hands and knees and worked himself into a standing position. “Nah, thanks,” he said, brushing dirt from his backside. “These’re my chores to do. Nobody else’s.”

She cocked her head again. “Don’t you mind?”

“Mind what?”

“You know. Doing her chores for her.” Edelgard shrugged. 

A pang of panic hit Cyril’s chest hard — as if an arrow tipped with terror had stricken him in the heart. Speaking ill of Lady Rhea to him? Insinuating he resented working for her? What exactly was this girl doing, prying about such matters?

Wary, Cyril searched Edelgard’s eyes. Their colour was light — like lavender or heather — but they were not laced with mischief, nor deceit. They didn’t look sly, as if she were spying on him, or attempting some sort of subterfuge. No, instead when Cyril looked into Edelgard’s eyes, he found...

Concern. Worry. She seemed genuine — almost troubled as she looked down at him.

_ Don’t you mind doing her chores for her?  _ she’d asked.

And after his hesitation, Cyril responded. “... No…” He knelt back down, retrieving the flower he’d dropped, and began to plant it once again.

Perturbing him, Edelgard knelt next to him, taking the flower from his hands. “These are purple cosmos, if I remember correctly,” she said.

“I dunno.” Cyril shrugged, his eyes narrowed. “I just plant ‘em.”

Edelgard placed the flower into the hole he’d dug. “Shame. It seems... wrong to me, that a child would be doing the dirty work.”

Another spark of panic flew through Cyril’s chest, igniting into flames of fear. He wanted to shush her — to plead her not to voice such thoughts so freely, when he was already at risk of being discovered as unfaithful. He turned his head towards her, but her eyes were focussed on the ground, on the dirt that she patted into place around the flower. Her face was still, lips unsmiling, and her fingers delicately cradled the flower’s petals.

_ A child doing the dirty work. _

That was all he really was, he supposed.

“Why do you think that?” he asked her in a whisper. “I’m just one of Rhea’s servants. That’s what I do here — the chores.”

“Yes, and that’s wrong.” Edelgard sat back and turned to him, expression serious. “Forgive me for saying so. I just fail to see how it’s fair that somebody your age should be doing her work.”

“That’s what servants  _ do—” _

“But you’re a  _ child.” _

Cyril blinked at her in surprise. This girl was the leader of the Black Eagles — sat at the head of some palace somewhere, one of Fódlan’s great powers. He’d always expected that these people were no different — that nobles cared not for even their own servants, let alone somebody else’s.

“Servants should be hired, and be paid for their work,” she explained. “Are you?”

Cyril pressed his lips together. He’d never seen a wage — never even heard it discussed. “No,” he admitted. “But she lets me live here. She feeds me and clothes me and gives me a place to stay. If it wasn’t for her, I’d be doing much worse work for the Goneril house—”

“Is that what she told you?” Edelgard looked almost irate now, flames dancing within the lavender of her eyes. Her jaw was hard. “Why should you be doing such work at your age? There’s a school here — the Officer’s Academy. She could have enrolled you as a student, but instead she makes you  _ serve?” _

Cyril sat in stunned silence as a realisation rose to his mind.

He couldn’t have agreed more with her.

When the Officer’s Academy had sat at his fingertips for just over a year, he had wondered on numerous occasions why he hadn’t been recruited as a student. Why had he been made to serve, when instead he could have learned? His childhood had already been stripped from him; Rhea evidently considered him as unworthy of any life other than one of servitude.

But he couldn’t voice these thoughts. He simply couldn’t. Expressing escape plans to Shamir beyond the monastery grounds was bad enough, but to Edelgard? To this noble, this house leader, out in the open within Rhea’s walls?

He furrowed his brow at her. “Don’t worry about me,” he told her firmly. “I’m fine.”

“Those sound like the words of somebody who isn’t fine.”

Cyril picked up the last of the cosmos and busied himself with planting it, feeling her gaze upon him the entire time. He felt almost judged. Of course, he agreed with Edelgard — with the sentiment she expressed — but on the other hand, he couldn’t help feeling that he was part of a ploy. Perhaps Rhea had grown suspicious of his qualms — had sent Edelgard to investigate him.

Or maybe his paranoia — the constant fear instilled in him, lingering from his childhood — was getting the better of him.

Cyril glanced over to her. “What does it matter to you whether I’m a servant or not?”

And when Edelgard replied, her words were gentle — sounding so genuine it made his heart ache. “Because you deserve better.”

He let his eyelids flutter shut and breathed in deeply. He had never been told those words before in his life.

“And I fail to see how you could be happy with the arrangement either,” Edelgard gave a slight shrug. “Wouldn’t you rather be in a classroom?”

“Maybe,” Cyril muttered in response. “But we shouldn’t be talking about this. It’s wrong to question Lady Rhea after all she’s done for me.”

A sigh escaped Edelgard’s nostrils as she sat back. When she spoke, she did so under her breath. “She’s brainwashed you bad, hasn’t she?”

It was as if the monastery’s bells had begun to chime; deep, dolorous tolls sounded inside Cyril’s brain at her words, making his eyes widen and his lips part. He shushed her fiercely, looking around himself in panic.

“We’re safe here, I promise,” Edelgard assured him, but her words became snatched up by the wind that blew around them, carried away upon it.

And then Cyril realised.

The breeze swallowed their words. The birds sang loudly around them as if desperate to smother their conversation, and any windows were too far out of reach to see anybody through them, let alone hear from them.

This was the perfect place to speak.

Even so, he kept his voice low as he looked deep into Edelgard’s eyes. “You say she… brainwashes people?”

And Edelgard searched Cyril’s eyes in return. “That’s all the Church is good for.”

His heart pounded. “Can you tell me more?"

The leader of the Black Eagles smiled, relief etched into her face.


	5. I’ll be happy that you’re gone

Cyril waited in the corridor, perched on the edge of a wicker chair against one wall, fidgeting anxiously.

He had always been told off for that habit of his, from back when he was a child in Almyra’s army, to being a servant of Goneril, even through to Garreg Mach by Seteth and Shamir. When he was nervous, his legs would twitch; he would tap his feet, drum his fingers on whatever surface he was near, would pick at the fibres of whatever shirt he was wearing.

He could hear Seteth’s sharp, stern words in his ears:

“You expect to serve the Archbishop twitching like that? You could spill her ink! Drop her plates, kick her feet! Stay still, son.”

Seteth cared about him, he thought. At least, he cared a damn sight more than Rhea herself evidently did.

The thought of her made him close his eyes tight, his feet tapping wildly against the stone floor of the dormitory’s corridor. A war was waging inside his brain.

Over a year of supposed _ ‘brainwashing’ _ had taught Cyril to believe the archbishop omnibenevolent — capable of nothing but love and safety and vitality. She had saved him from a worse place, and he was blessed to be able to serve her. His dingy bedroom, scratchy servant’s clothes, and cold, leftover food each night were  _ gifts _ — he was to be thankful! Yet on the other hand, how dare she? Plain and simple, how dare she treat him like that, when he could have been offered so much more?

Cyril didn’t know. He was confused. His very life was uncertain at the moment. What was right? Who told the truth — who was to be believed? He was tired. He was tired, and confused, and wanted nothing more than to curl up in the soft, downy hay of the stables and fall asleep.

Only the sound of a door clicking to his right made him open his eyes again, searching through the corridor’s low morning light to see somebody walking towards him.

He stood at once. “Good morning, Lady Edelgard,” he chirped.

“Good morning, Cyril,” she said back, giving a brusque smile that reminded him of Shamir. “Ready to help?”

“Sure am!” Cyril replied. He skipped up to her as they made their way through the dormitories. “What’re we doing first?”

“Hm, I think I’d like help collecting firewood first, if that’s alright.” She spoke clearly — almost  _ loudly, _ considering the rest of the corridor slept. But, Cyril supposed, that was part of her plan.

“Firewood. You got it,” he said.

He fell into step behind her as they descended the spiral staircase, only rejoining her side once they were outside in the crisp dawn air. Moisture hung heavy in the sky, and swirling grey clouds above them promised rainfall at some point later in the day. Edelgard didn’t seem fazed — she strode down the monastery’s paths as if she owned them, her chin held high and her chest pushed forward.

Cyril found himself mimicking her gait. She looked powerful just from her walk, with her hands curled into fists and her hair swirling behind her like a flurry of hail. Crossing her in the street, one would step aside for her without question. One would cower beneath her lilac gaze and apologise for getting in her way. Her very presence effused authority. Cyril could only dream he’d be like that one day.

They weaved through the monastery until they reached the path to the forest, where the trees opened up to swallow them. The tightness of the canopy’s branches blocked out the sky to cast a dingy haze over them, while the squashy moss and fallen leaves absorbed their footsteps.

“You’ll have to lead the way to the firewood, Cyril,” Edelgard told him. “I’m afraid I’ve never been here before.”

“Don’t worry,” Cyril responded. He knew what her words meant — the sentiment she covered up. Their meeting today was not to do with firewood — nor to do with any chores at all. “Collecting firewood’s my duty. I’m the only one who really comes down here, 'specially in the mornings. We’re alone.”

Edelgard looked around them, at the circular clearing they’d reached — at the stumps sprouting from the spongy soil, the remains of the pines felled for firewood. One tree trunk lay off to one side, already divided up into circular logs to be chopped for firewood. “You did this?” she asked, somewhat astoundedly.

Cyril had to laugh. “Me, chop down a tree? Nah, I’m not quite strong enough for that. I just chop from the circular bits.”

He watched Edelgard’s lips grow tight and her brow furrow, a sort of blush rising beneath her ivory skin. “Oh.” And she readjusted herself, puffing out her chest once more. “So, you say we may speak freely here?”

“Don’t see why not,” Cyril shrugged, “there’s no one around.”

It was true. Birds chirped happily from the trees skirting them, but nobody could be seen. In the clearing, there was nowhere to hide, and Cyril and Edelgard each perched upon a stump in the centre, close enough to whisper.

Edelgard did. “You truly want me to tell you what I know about the Church? It is by no means pleasant.”

Cyril leaned closer. “Of course I do,” he murmured back.

“I’m glad. What Rhea does to you reminds me of what they did to my family.”

“What happened to your family?” Cyril asked, a feeling of dread beginning to spread in the pit of his stomach. “Did she make you servants too…?”

Edelgard von Hresvelg’s face took on an odd expression — something far away, with glazed-over eyes.

Thus began how Cyril learned of Those Who Slither in the Dark. As Edelgard spoke of her childhood, a feeling inside of him curdled and grew, swelling inside him until he felt sick. Dark tendrils squirmed into his brain and wrapped their way around his nerves until they squeezed at him, inducing a throbbing headache behind his eyes.

Human experiments. Being confined to a damp, stone-cold cell when not undergoing tests or surgeries. Hearing nothing but one’s own sobs and the anguished screams of one’s dying siblings. What Edelgard had endured, nobody deserved.

“And all in the name of  _ Crests,” _ Edelgard spat, clutching onto her uniform’s shorts in a white-knuckled grip. “All because of the pathetic grip the Church holds on the lives of the nobles. They think of nothing but themselves. As long as they have their Crests, they have their land. They have their riches. They have their power.”

“And it’s all because of her,” Cyril breathed, feeling distant.

Edelgard gave a weak nod. “As long as Rhea lives, their habits are fed. Their tyranny continues.”

Cyril did not just feel distant, but disconnected. His consciousness had escaped his body and now floated weightlessly above the scene.

_ She _ had put Edelgard through all of that. She, with her lust for power and greed for meaningless statuses to be upheld, had led to the mutilation of ten innocent children; caused the insanity of some, murder of others, and the physical and mental scarification of the only stable Hresvelg child left. There were most likely even more victims — more she didn’t know about.

Cyril was beyond sickened. The nausea had left his body some time ago to be replaced instead by a void. He had stopped comprehending the Church’s vile ways and now merely shook as violently as he had as a child, racked by his parents’ deaths.

“I hate her,” he said hollowly, the words becoming entangled with the bile in his throat. “She has to go.”

Edelgard fixed Cyril with sunken, shaky eyes — their vibrant colour shining out from the dark circles with a flicker of hope beneath them. The nod she gave him this time was more envigored — more inspired. “Yes,” she said. “She does.” 


	6. Right to left, left to right

All Cyril wanted to do was get out.

He knew of the Church’s horrors; of Rhea’s wrongdoings. He knew of Crest bias, and the corruption of nobles, and the evil cults the Church’s influence had sprung into existence. He wished he didn’t. In a way, he wished he’d remained ignorant — kept his head down, shut his mouth, and obeyed orders mindlessly. Life would have been a whole lot simpler.

Alas, he knew now, and he wanted to do something to stop it. Anger swirled deep in the pit of his stomach to stir his blood, feeding his rage through his every waking moment. Helping Edelgard with her ‘daily chores’ and ‘personal training’ in the forest was now his only cause of escape; there, they could talk freely. Cyril could voice his old plans of escape and he wasn’t shut down. Instead, Edelgard listened with envigoured eyes, and responded in kind.

Even so, it became abundantly clear that escape wouldn’t satisfy either of them. Once Cyril had uttered those words — _“she has to go”_ — their plan had been set in motion.

The last time the two of them had met in the forest, Edelgard bringing with her a basket of breadcrumbs that she’d scattered to the birds and squirrels, Cyril had voiced his restlessness.

“How can we go about it, though? Y’know… bringing about the end.” The words sounded so severe — almost childishly so — leaving his lips.

“There are some things I need to take care of first,” Edelgard responded.

“Things?” Cyril asked.

Edelgard merely nodded, preoccupied. “Things. Things to help us in our cause.”

Cyril’s ears perked up at that. “Can I help?”

“It’s dangerous. I don’t want to put you in such peril.” Edelgard absentmindedly threw crumbs to a couple of squirrels and blackbirds by her feet.

After that, he hadn’t seen her nearly as often. He began training with Shamir more frequently to pass the time, dipping back into monastery chores just for something to do.

It was when cleaning up the library at the end of the day that everything caught up to him. Cyril’s eyelids grew heavy, the low candlelight of the library in evening lulling him into a drowse. His head grew heavy as he dusted the table; never before had he felt so stuffed with information.

The newfound terrors he’d discovered battled inside his mind for attention, each more demanding than the last. _You’ll become cannon fodder if you get any better at arching. Edelgard has been tortured. The Crest system was directly caused by Rhea’s church. You have to turn against her — and against all you know — to take that system down._

 _“Man,”_ Cyril sighed to himself, taking a seat on one of the table’s many chairs. He needed a break. Never before had he understood the meaning of needing a break — his entire existence was based on trying to pay somebody back — but now he knew. Now, he let his head rest upon the softness of his arms atop the table, and his eyes drifted shut.

The candle on the table before him effused a low heat, warming his face. His bedroom was so cold, and the library was so warm. His consciousness waned, and Cyril did not resist.

What woke him was a heavy, cacophonous sound. Cyril snapped upright, head spinning. The candle before him had ebbed away until only its wick was left, the flame flickering, frantically trying to escape the glowing pool of wax beneath it. On the other side of the table, illuminated by the rest of the library’s dwindling candlelight, a girl knelt down, muttering to herself.

Cyril shook his head to rid himself of his fatigue, and stood. A huge pile of books had been dropped, scattered across the floor before the girl who scrambled to pick them up. He crossed the table and crouched down before her.

“Let me help.”

“Oh, shoot!” The girl looked up at him; at first glance, he thought she was Edelgard — long white hair, mainly-black academy uniform — but upon further inspection, she was a stranger to him. She looked younger, with a fuller face and fluffier hair.

It took a long moment of Cyril searching her widened, rose-coloured eyes before he recognised her; a Golden Deer student. He’d often seen her trailing around after their saffron-caped leader Claude, usually wearing a frown.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Embarrassment flushed throughout him. “I wasn’t meant to be sleeping anyway, so… ya kinda did me a favour.”

She gave a little chuckle. “Was studying really that boring?”

 _Ah, great._ Here came that always-awkward explanation. “Actually, I’m, uh... I’m not a student.” He felt his cheeks begin to burn as he spoke. This girl looked to be his age — younger than the usual students here. Cyril knew that Edelgard was seventeen, and he’d seen a woman in the Blue Lion house who looked to be in her twenties. This girl in front of him, however, seemed younger. Perhaps she was even fourteen, like him.

She was his age, and she was a student. She had been carrying a pile of books to do some late-night studying, because she was part of the Officer’s Academy.

And Cyril was a measly servant. His jaw tightened.

“Oh, you’re not…?” The girl looked him up and down — at his shabby servant’s garb, rough undyed cotton riddled with little holes from a year of wear. He felt more embarrassment swell within him.

“Nope, I work here. Anyway, want a hand with those books?”

“Huh?” The girl’s eyes grew wide, and she looked down to the books scattered across the floor as if suddenly becoming aware of them. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I can do it myself, thanks.” She began to paw around the books, pulling them all into a little pile in front of her. She looked so small in comparison to them — the countless huge, heavy tomes — that it was almost amusing.

“Sure you can,” Cyril shrugged, “but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t use some help.”

She glared up at him with a frightening intensity. “I’m fine. I’ve done this before…”

Five books were stacked atop one another, then a sixth; Cyril leant over and picked up a stray one from by his feet, handing it to the girl. She took it abashedly, muttering a ‘thank you’ as she snatched it from his grasp. It was slapped on top of the pile to make seven tomes.

“You got enough space in your brain for all o’ that?” Cyril asked with genuine curiosity.

The girl huffed. “Yes! Thanks! I don’t need you telling me what I can and can’t learn.” And when she stood, the pile reached almost up to her waist. She was short — about the same height as him. Yet she had enough irritated stubbornness about her personality to fuel even the haughtiest of wyverns, making her appear bigger than her five-feet or so.

“I’m not tellin’ ya nothin’. Just… here…” Cyril reached down and picked up four of the tomes from the stack, the weight searing at his arm muscles. “You grab the other three. We’ll share the load.”

The girl looked about to explode, but did as she was asked anyway. She grabbed the last three books, released a breath of exertion, and stuck her nose in the air. “I’m taking them back to my dorm.” And with that, she stalked away as brusquely as possible, waddling beneath the weight of the books.

Cyril followed her amusedly.

They made their way through the monastery together, down darkened, silent corridors towards the dormitories.

"What's your name, anyhow?" asked Cyril to break the silence.

She glanced his way. "I'm Lysithea von Ordelia—"

"Lysithea!" That rang a bell; the Golden Deer house leader had definitely exclaimed it once or twice. Cyril felt a sort of warmth spread throughout the pit of his stomach as he thought about it; it was a pretty name. A beautiful name. It suited her perfectly. "Of course. I did know that."

"You did?" Lysithea von Ordelia rounded a corner. "What's your name then?"

"Cyril. Taleb." Yet when all she gave was a nod in response, Cyril spoke up again. "I don't expect ya to know who I am though, don't worry."

Was that a blush he noticed rising to her cheeks beneath the corridor's low torchlight?

They passed each dormitory door until Lysithea reached hers. She shouldered through her door of unpolished oak to reveal a candlelit room, organised and pristine.

Of course, Cyril recognised this dormitory. He’d been inside it too many times to count, changing bedsheets, retrieving laundry, mopping the floor… This room in particular was one he'd always adored; it was so neat, kept dust-free and clean and making his workload immeasurably easier.

“So _you’re_ the person from this room!” he exclaimed, making Lysithea cock an eyebrow.

“Huh?”

“I’m the guy who cleans these dorms sometimes. You always keep yours so nice I never have to do much.”

“Oh!” Lysithea looked bashful. “Well, a tidy workspace makes studying easier. And it makes me happier...”

“Makes the cleaner real happy too,” Cyril remarked.

Lysithea gave a little giggle, one that sounded like music from her sweet, light voice, and passed to the bed, dropping the stack of books on the floor beside it. _Bedtime reading,_ Cyril suspected with a smile. He placed his four on top of them. The sudden lack of weight in his arms made them feel as if they were floating.

Lysithea made herself busy around her desk, neatening up stacks of already-tidy papers. Cyril passed through the room to her door when she spoke again. “So, what else do you do around here?”

He blinked at her — at where she was turned away from him, sheet of pristine white hair reaching down to the base of her shoulder blades. She was asking questions about him? “Uh, I do all sorts of stuff, really. I work for Lady Rhea, doin’ whatever she wants me to do.”

Lysithea nodded, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Like what?”

“Why d’ya wanna know? It’s really not that interesting.”

She shrugged and continued organising her desk. “It’s interesting to me.”

 _Hm._ Why did that sound like the biggest lie he'd ever heard? “Well, I clean the floors and the desks and I tidy up. Laundry, changin’ sheets, stuff like that.” He walked timidly up to her side, watching her arrange her quills in order of size. “And I pick weeds, plant flowers, brush the paths… Uhh…” He did so many things; sometimes it was difficult to remember them all.

“Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” Lysithea said with a tired smile. “Running around all day.”

“Yeah, well. I got nothin’ else to do.” _It beats training with Shamir just to go die._

“And even though you do all of that, you helped me. Thank you, by the way," Lysithea said stiffly, "for all your help with the books."

“Man, you’d never’ve been able to carry them all,” Cyril remarked with a giggle. When Lysithea turned fiercely, about to bite his head off, he held up his arms in surrender. “Neither would I, though! Heck, I don’t even think that big guy in your house could’ve managed with all of ‘em.”

Lysithea blinked confoundedly with her huge rosy eyes. “You know Raphael…?”

“Raphael? Huh. Nah, I don’t _know_ him,” shrugged Cyril, “I just noticed him around the monastery. I noticed you, too. How you’re always around your house leader, giving him some lecture or another.”

She blushed. “You notice a lot.”

“I’ve worked here for over a year. You learn to watch silently. There’s not much else to do.”

“What else do you notice?” Lysithea crossed the room and sat down upon her bed, patting the space next to her in gesture for him to copy.

Sitting down in a student’s dorm, talking to them? This had never happened before; no one had ever paid attention to him before or since Edelgard. He lowered himself into the plush cushioned surface of the bed — fluffy feathered mattress and thick-sheeted duvet. _Luxury._ “What else do I notice…?”

Lysithea nodded intently, and Cyril dove deep into thought. He noticed how Rhea treated him — making him and other refugees into servants while the other, more fortunately-born children were students. He noticed the tenseness to Shamir’s shoulders whenever the archbishop was mentioned; how reluctant she was to reveal the debt she owed her. He noticed the pain in Edelgard’s eyes whenever siblings were mentioned, and the bitter hatred rising inside her at the utterance of the word ‘Crest’.

Cyril noticed a lot nowadays — more than he knew what to do with. But he couldn’t reveal that.

“What’s up?” Lysithea asked him suddenly. “Your face has gone all dark.”

Cyril shook the thoughts away, returning to her. She looked concerned. “Nothing, just… I don’t notice much worth mentioning.”

Lysithea’s face clouded. “Why do I suspect that’s not the truth…?”

“What does it matter if it’s the truth?” He couldn’t tell people the truth; not when the monastery relied on loyalty to Rhea. Cyril turned away, eyes scanning the stack of books beside him, the front cover of the one on top being a beautiful indigo colour. His eyes narrowed as he examined it.

A symbol. A complicated, convoluted symbol shone out in gold, surrounded by flourishing lettering. But the symbol looked familiar. He’d seen it before — or ones like it anyway — etched upon the chalkboards in Professor Hanneman’s room. It was pretty.

Lysithea poked her nose over his shoulder. “What’re you looking at?”

“That book. That symbol’s a Crest, right?”

“Yeah, the Crest of Charon,” she said, tone a little awkward. “I mean, the book’s called _Crest Manifestation._ Take a hint.”

Cyril ignored that. “You’re researching Crests?”

“Umm… yeah,” she replied in a sing-song voice, “sort of.”

Cyril picked it up and looked at the one beneath; its cover would once have been white, but now appeared yellow from age, with dark black lettering stamped onto its front.

“What’s this one?”

_“A Theory of Crest Implementation…”_

“Crest… Implementation?” Cyril’s blood ran cold. Edelgard’s two Crests had been achieved only through means of human experimentation, gene manipulation, and unethical medical operations. Her second Crest had been implemented inside her — forced within her veins by cruel means. “You mean like… making people have more than one, don’t you?”

Lysithea looked uncomfortable, expression tight. “It’s very taboo. I’m surprised it’s in the monastery’s library, to be honest. But it’s… just a theory, anyway,” she said, tucking a lock of pearlescent white hair behind her ear.

_White hair._

Cyril felt as if he’d been thrown into ice water, his nerves running cold and his heart stopping. He felt his eyes widen as he looked into Lysithea’s own, watching the girl give him an uneasy smile.

“No,” he muttered.

“What…?”

“Lysithea, no...” Cyril turned towards her and grasped onto her hands — the same way he had with Edelgard when she’d spoken of it. The torment, the pain, the _torture_ she must’ve endured; Cyril could do nothing but hold onto her with shaking hands. She couldn’t have gone through it too — she was too sweet. Too small.

Panic settled into each one of Lysithea’s pretty little features. “What?” she uttered again, swallowing hard.

 _“Crest experiments?”_ Cyril asked, the words poison on his tongue.

Her eyes widened in fear — in desperation. “You know about them?” she hissed back. When Cyril nodded, she choked up. “How do you know?”

“I…” He couldn’t out Edelgard — not without her permission. “I heard about how they give people white hair. Someone else told me. Someone who knows what they did.” What _she_ did.

Lysithea returned her gaze to her lap, at where her pale hands sat within it, clutched in Cyril's white-knuckled grip. “It’s good to hear I’m not alone sometimes.”

She was sad. Cyril barely knew her, but the sorrow he felt for her surged through him; he scooched up the bed closer to her and gave her a couple of pats on the back. That was how people comforted each other, wasn’t it?

“You’re never alone,” he offered.

A bitter smile. “Thank you, Cyril.”

“So that’s why you’re lookin’ into Crests? Because of what happened?”

Lysithea’s lips tightened. “I want to… reverse it, somehow. It’s just… Not knowing when I’m going to die, but knowing it’ll be soon. It’s so hard. It’s so...” But she trailed off.

“You’re... dying?”

She looked hurt. “Everyone who’s experimented on is dying. They said it’s a miracle I was still alive. And they left me because I was going to die soon. There was no point sticking around because I’d just…” She took a shaking breath. “... die.”

Cyril sat staring at her, dumbfounded. Only one thought rose to his mind as he processed everything.

He needed to tell Edelgard about this. There were more like her — more people who’d suffered the same fate, who were struggling too. Lysithea clearly resented what had happened to her; she was going as far as to try to reverse it. She could be an excellent ally to Edelgard’s cause; perhaps even somebody to lean on — to share woes with.

Cyril wasn’t exactly sure how that stuff worked. All he knew was that he’d do anything to have someone to talk to about his situation; someone else who’d been orphaned, abandoned, used. To have someone to share that with would mean the world to him. Edelgard was the closest he’d come, but the two of them would never fully know the other’s pain.

“Anyway,” Lysithea said, interrupting his train of thought, “sorry to have kept you.”

“Nah, not at all. It’s nice to have someone to talk to once in a while.”

Lysithea gave a sympathetic smile. “People don’t talk to you?”

And Cyril answered honestly. “No one talks to me.”

The girl’s lips parted, her eyebrows twisting into something sad. It was in that moment that Cyril knew he’d done something wrong — said something awkward. Made the situation suddenly all about him when Lysithea was the one who needed comforting. _This is why people don’t talk to you._

He stood from the bed and straightened. “Well, I gotta go finish up in the library—”

“Wait,” Lysithea said, reaching out and grabbing onto his upper arm. He turned, alarmed. “At least let me repay the favour…?” she asked with a bittersweet smile. “If I can help with any of your chores, just let me know, okay?”

Cyril almost laughed. This girl was so delicate and dainty — a noble and a student, not fit for chores. He entertained the sentiment all the same. “If I think of a way you can, I’ll let ya know.”

It sated her; she gave a sweet smile and a nod. “Thank you, Cyril. For everything. See you around.”

“See ya.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as part of the Three Houses AU Bang (FE3H AU Bang), and is a fic I've been so excited about for such a long time. I really hope everybody enjoys it — if you did, please let me know, I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> I'm [VeloxVoid](https://twitter.com/VeloxVoid) on Twitter if you'd like to follow me for more. I'm currently taking a break for my mental health but I should be back fairly soon :)


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